


After Effects

by TheCumberLadyInTheWoods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of Mystrade, Reunion Fic, cursing, depressed!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCumberLadyInTheWoods/pseuds/TheCumberLadyInTheWoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sound of silence can be so cruel especially when your world used to be filled with so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Effects

SH/JW

 

The black stone with its white letters was cold and hard under John’s hand. He stared down at the name written there and thought about the man. Sherlock Holmes the world’s only consulting detective and his one true friend. No, his only friend. He could admit now, at least to himself, that the feelings he had tried so hard to hide and denied so vehemently when his partner in crime was alive were deep. He had loved the sonofabitch, loved him in a way he had loved no one else, loved him to the point of distraction. It was a sobering through that he would never get to tell him.

 

Three years, three long and miserable and completely useless years. He had kept the flat at 221B Bakers Street purely because it reminded him of his lost friend and because he knew that Mrs. Hudson liked having him there. He had tried to find another flatmate after the first year but it hadn’t seemed right. No one should share the space with him unless it was Sherlock. He had prayed (something he hadn’t done in a very long time) for the miracle of Sherlock’s return, that somehow with the help of some supreme power he had lived and was just waiting on the right time to return to John and Baker Street. But it had all been to no avail.

 

Sherlock was gone. Lost to him forever. The thought brought tears to his eyes but he fought them off. He had been doing that a lot lately. Everything reminded him of his fallen friend even after three years.

 

He had stopped seeing the therapist about a year ago. It was getting him nowhere. She didn’t know how to get him to open up and he didn’t know how to tell her what he felt. These feelings were…difficult. There was love, hate, deep sorrow, and more than a little pissed off.

 

Nightmares of Sherlock’s last words haunted him. The dreams were harder to handle than the reality because in his dreams he wasn’t too late, in his dreams there was a way to save his friend, in his dreams there was no goodbye. But they were only dreams and when he woke up it was like a kick to the gut to find that they were nothing more than fanciful illusions in his head. He cried after every single one of the dreams. No matter how much time passed he would wake up, find Sherlock gone, and cry until he was dry then he would get up and start his day. Not that there was much to his days anymore. He had taken a job at St. Bart's and the local hospital to pay the bills, helping in the morgue or in surgery.

  
The sound of twigs snapping behind him drew his attention and he looked away from the stone long enough to see Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade coming toward him. The man looked depressed, almost as much as John himself. He had been mourning the loss of the detective as well.

 

“Hello,” he said as he came to stand on the other side of the grave. It was the same every week. The same time, the same place, even the same conversation sometimes. But they both continued the tradition of sorts because it helped. They felt a little less disconnected standing here together with Sherlock between them. The familiarity of the situation kept the tears at bay, kept John and Lestrade from completely losing it. John lived for this day of the week when he would get to interact with someone other than Mrs. Hudson or one of his patients or Molly, who had taken to coming over to the flat at all hours of the day to check on him. He found it annoying and had snapped at her on several occasions. But every time he snapped or cursed at her she would smile brightly and comment on how he sounded like Sherlock when he was irritated which would in turn send Molly into a crying fit and send her running for the door. Damn irritating woman! He wondered briefly why he kept letting her inside, knew it was because even though he denied it the visits helped. It was nice to know someone else who had loved Sherlock like he did. He began to wonder if maybe he should open up to Molly about that particular part of his grief. John knew she felt the same thing as she had never told Sherlock about her true feelings either.

 

“Hello,” John said back as he turned his attention back to the gravestone. His voice was soft and gravely with disuse. He didn’t talk much these days, just a few words to Mrs. Hudson and a stern word or two to Molly and the bare essentials to his patients. He never spoke to co-workers or any of his ex-girlfriends. This once a week hour long conversation with Lestrade and that was it. His life was lived to come here to this grave and visit his dead best mate.

 

“How are you this week?”

 

“The usual I suppose. Molly was over this morning. She was being particularly irritating and I was very harsh to her which of course made her start crying because it reminds her of _him_.” John titled his head toward the grave. “I swear if she doesn’t stop coming over I’m going to bolt the door so she can’t get in.” He huffed as he bent over and removed a leaf that had blown onto the base of the gravestone.

 

“She means well,” was the reply at which John scoffed.

 

“If she meant well then she’d leave me alone.” He replied straightening and shoving his hands into his jacket pocket. The wind was blowing harder than it had been when he’d first come into the graveyard. He closed his eyes for a moment and let himself breath in the scent of the autumn air. God, he hated how peaceful it was here. His life, his mind, his whole world was broken beyond any hope of repair and still the world outside went on. It was almost too much for him to take. Sherlock would have hated it too, probably more than him even. He had always been so full of energy and life…John let the thought trail off without finishing it. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes.

 

“You don’t mean that,” Lestrade said giving him a sympatric look before turning his gaze down to the grave. It was the same argument he had been making for three years and he was right. John didn’t mean it; he just wished she would treat him more like she had when Sherlock was here. But no, he had been reduced to a substitute. He told Lestrade such.

 

“Oh, surely not John. She just wants you to know she’s there and that she understands. We all know how you felt about him.” The comment caught him off guard. For all the conversations he had had with the Detective Inspector they had never breached the topic of John’s feelings for his late friend.

 

“Wh-W-What?” He sputtered as he turned his gaze on the older man. Lestrade stared at him with those all seeing eyes softened with affection for the doctor. It was unnerving.

 

“You loved him, we all knew it. No one ever really said anything because well…It wasn’t our place. We had hoped you’d both come to it in your own time but…” He trailed off as and shot a pained look down at the headstone.

 

“But then Sherlock died.” John said simply. He didn’t bother to dispute the conclusion because it was true. From the first there had been something special about his flatmate. It was something he had tried time and again to find in someone else, anyone else, but had been wholly unsuccessful to date. No one in the whole world would ever be what Sherlock had been to him.

 

“Yeah,” was all Lestrade said as he lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs at the ankles. He reclined back, holding himself up with his hands. John joined him but sat Indian-style with his eyes fixed on the bouquet of flowers he had placed in the little holder at the center of the black stone. The red and white carnations were a strake contract to the gleaming stone.

 

“I wish…” John started but had to stop. How many times had he thought about opening up to someone about this very topic? Dozens...maybe hundreds...No one had ever seemed like the right person to tell or it had never seemed like the right time. For some reason, today seemed like the right time and Lestrade seemed like the right person. “I wish I had told him.” He said simply and looked across the dirt at his…friend, he supposed.

 

“There is always something we wish we would have done differently when we loss someone we care about.” The Detective Inspector said at length watching him, reading on his face that he was prepared to talk. Greg figured it had been coming for a while now. The pain and hurt on the young man’s face when he saw him were little clues that he had picked up on over the last three years. He was hurting and he hadn’t told anyone why.

 

“From that first day when I meet him in the lab at St. Bart’s there was something so… _intriguing_ about him. He asked to use our mutual acquaintance Mike Stamford’s phone and when Mike didn’t have his I offered mine and as soon as he turned and looked at me it was just _BAM_! I was a goner. Those aquamarine eyes just pulled you right in and made you love him instantly. The first thing he ever asked me was whether I had been in Afghanistan or Iraq. I was amazed at his abilities and as our relationship went on, he just continued to amaze me. He was the most brilliant, incredibly dense man I’ve ever meet. Oh, there were times I wanted to just wrap my hands around his throat and strangle him but most of the time I just wanted to hold him, just once. It wasn’t something I ever expected to feel especially not for another man, you know.” When John looked across the dirt he found Lestrade nodding.

 

“Yes, I do know what that’s like.” John raised his eyebrow and Greg smiled slightly. It was the first real emotion other than sadness that he had seen on the Detective Inspector’s face in three years. “I’ve been seeing Mycroft.” He explained simply looking away toward the headstone missing the surprised look John gave him. “Sometimes I wonder what he would have thought about that. How he could have felt about the fact that I’m in love with his brother. I like to think he would have seen it coming before we told him.” This time it was John’s turn to smile as he remembered the man’s ability in deduction.

 

“Yeah, probably. He would have taken one look at you in the middle of a crime scene and commented on the cut of your shirt or the way your hair was laying and deduced that you had spent the night with someone and eventually he’d have puzzled it down to his brother. Though I do have to imagine that it would have been rather amusing watching his face once he realized who it was.” John laughed, a little rusty sound from deep in his chest, as he gazed teary eyed at the dark headstone.

 

“Oi, I would have hated that! Surely as I sit here Donavon and Anderson would have been standing there to, probably some reporter.” He shook his head and looked back toward the direction he had came from and smiled brightly. John turned and watched as a tall thin figure in a perfectly cut gray suit carrying an umbrella in one hand and a bouquet of flowers approached. When Mycroft spotted them he stopped and seemed to consider turning around for a moment.

 

Greg motioned him forward.

 

Seeming to accept the invitation Mycroft approached where the two men sat. He looked at John sadly as he passed, the way he always did these days when their paths happened to intersect, and placed the flowers on the ground in front of the headstone. He extended his hand down to the young man who has been his brother’s companion and gave him a firm handshake. If Mycroft were another sort he might have crouched down and hugged the man but there were few who he allowed himself that level of intimacy with. His gaze turned to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and he smiled a soft, private smile before moving around the gravesite to stand beside the other man. He was careful to keep his distance and to not give away too much of what he felt. John didn’t know about them after all, no one did. It would not do to upset his brother’s friend here.

 

“How are you doing John? I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He said in a voice that was calm as always. John wondered briefly if Mycroft had always been so… _refined_ and decided yes he probably had. Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship was so rocky that he was very rarely spoken of by his younger sibling, only at times when he was interfering. John liked to think that perhaps there had been a time when Mycroft and Sherlock had been cohorts in skims to drive his mother mad or maybe to terrorize the staff in their boyhood home. But the doctor knew that was probably just wishful thinking. The oldest Holmes boy didn’t let people close, at least not willingly. His gaze shifted down to Lestrade and he thought maybe, just maybe that was changing.

 

“No, no, you haven’t interrupted anything. Just our weekly meeting here as per course. Lestrade and I were just talking about your new relationship. Congratulations. I wish you both the most happiness.” John said politely as he watched the man. How could he do it? Be around someone he cared for, loved even, and never show anymore emotions other than a softening of his facial features. The doctor wished he had the opportunity to shower Sherlock with affection and indulge in his emotional connection with the man. He didn’t kid himself into thinking it would have been easy, Sherlock could be a right git when the mood struck him, but he would have loved watching as the consulting detective worked it out in his wonderful brain. He would have loved to watch the wheels turn as he took advantage of the moments he used to process a situation. He could have stolen kisses, wrapped Sherlock tight against him, and unbuttoned that incredibly tight purple shirt he loved to wear…

 

John quickly dashed the thoughts away as the tears began to form in his eyes. But now he would never get the chance to do anything like that.

 

“Oh, um, thank you.” The stiff way he said it and the look that he shot Lestrade said that he did not appreciate being taken by surprise on such a personal matter. Greg reached out and took his hand, pulling at his arm. John watched in amusement as Mycroft debated sitting down on the ground in his suit. Apparently his want to make his partner happy won out over the years of training and he dropped down onto his bum beside the detective. The two men sat close and Lestrade linked his arm loosely with the other man’s. The two seemed to just fit together, like two halves of a whole just slipping into place. He and Sherlock had been like that. Two halves of the same piece just floating until they had found one another again.

 

“John was just telling me about his first meeting with your brother and how amazing he thought he was.” The prompting did not go unnoticed by John but he wondered how Mycroft would feel about his sharing such personal information with the couple. It was easy to talk to Lestrade, he knew him and trusted him, but Mycroft was a different story. He was part of the British government; he was a secret agent, sometimes even boarded on being a spy. It was hard to figure out just what role he was playing at any given moment.

 

“Oh, well, don’t let me interrupt you John. I’m sure it helps you to talk about him.” Mycroft gave him what passed for a smile and John was grateful that he seemed to be playing the role of friend today.

 

“It does, some.” John affirmed as he stretched his legs out and plucked at the grass. “I guess the simplest way to express how I felt about him is to say I loved him with every fiber of my being. I would have done just about, _did_ do pretty much anything for him. He was like a misplaced piece that I always knew I was missing but never hoped to find. He was my soul mate.” He chuckled as he thought about the day that Sherlock had been arrested for suspicion of kidnapping the ambassador’s children.

 

“What?” Lestrade asked with a smile.

 

“Nothing, I was just thinking about the time I chinned the Chief Superintendent for taking Sherlock into custody and bad mouthing him. If that wasn’t a tip off for you lot I don’t know what was.” The three men shared a laugh before falling silent. Wind blew softly through the trees and John felt a prickle on the back of his neck. “He said not to make him into a hero, that I would be disappointed if I did. But how could I not. He was the most amazing man I’ve ever meet and now he’s just…gone.” John lowered his head and scrubbed his face with his hands. Damn! He didn’t want to cry, not in front of Mycroft and Lestrade. The prickle on the back of his neck got stronger and he reached around to rub the pinch he felt there. It was weird he felt like he was being watched, like someone was staring directly at the back of his head.

 

Turning his head he watched as a tall thin figure moved through the stones, careful to keep in the shade of the trees. He felt his heart kick hard in his chest as he watched the figures progress across the rows, moving slowly toward them. He caught a flash of raven black hair, pale skin, and sharp cheekbones. His stomach twisted into knots and he pushed to his feet. The figure stopped three rows away and lifted its head. Aquamarine eyes stared back at him, beautiful aquamarine eyes that could only belong to one person in the entire world.

 

John looked down at Mycroft and Lestrade. The couple had pushed themselves to their feet as well and were staring at the figure standing in front of them. The confirmation that he wasn’t seeing things sent John off like a shot toward the tall man. The closer he got the more the weight inside of him lifted and when he finally reached Sherlock he didn’t stop, he leaped and wrapped his arms tightly around the man. Sherlock didn’t even pretend to be shocked or annoyed and wrapped his arms around John immediately absorbing the force of his momentum.

 

The feel of his friend, of the man he had grown to love pressed against his front was the most amazing thing he’d ever felt in his life. John clung to Sherlock, vowing to never let him go again. Sherlock tried to pull back but John wouldn’t let him.

 

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned as he squeezed his mate tighter. “You were gone for three years, three bloody years and I need this. Just stand still and let me...” John turned his head into the soft fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and breathed in the man’s scent. Clean…wonderful…Sherlock.

 

“I know John.” He said simply and lowered his head to lay his cheek against his dark hair streaked with silver.

 

For the last three years Sherlock had tried to convince himself that the emotions he had felt for John had been a combination of living together and working together. Of course he would start to respect John and care about his safety. Of course when he was gone he would wonder how his flatmate was doing. It was all a perfectly natural reaction to having spent so much time with someone else. What he couldn't explain away was the empty feeling he got when he would think about John or wake up from dreaming about him. That sharp insistent ache that said something inside of him was missing, something vital and important. It wasn't a reaction he had counted on.

 

 _"Caring isn’t an advantage,"_ Mycroft had told him and he had been right at the time. But now Sherlock knew better. Caring was all there was. Without caring what was the point. The last three years he had gone without the one person who made him _feel_. Dr. John Watson had somehow slipped inside of him and became an intricate part of him without him noticing. He was lost without the other man, totally lost. The day he had been forced to walk away from John had been the day he'd realized he was truly capable of loving another person and it had been a hard pill to swallow for the man who had convinced himself and everyone around him that he didn't _need_ anyone. But he needed John, he needed his Watson.

 

"I missed you," The shorter man whispered against his chest. Sherlock raised his head up and stared down into his eyes. Such wonderful eyes, bright with tears and happiness.

 

"I...I missed you too, John." He drawled as he reached up to brush his fingers across his mate's cheek to dispel some of the tears making tracks down his face. John leaned into the touch.

 

"I love you," he whispered as he pressed his forehead against Sherlock's collarbone.

 

Sherlock stopped breathing. Had John just...Did he really just...

 

"Yes, you idiot, I love you. God save me." John answered his unspoken question. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around John tighter, holding on for dear life.

 

"I love you too my dear Dr. Watson." He felt John stiffen then cling to him again, holding him tight and Sherlock hoped beyond anything that this would always be how it was between them.

 

"Sherlock..." Lestrade's voice was shocked and pleased and Sherlock chuckled.

 

"You were expecting someone else?" He shot over John's shoulder in a haughty tone. Lestrade narrowed his eyes at him and scoffed.

 

"Alright ya cheeky bastard." He shot back and slipped his arm around Mycroft's waist to pull him away. Mycroft followed with a shake of his head as the couple started off down the rows of headstones. The older Holmes brother stopped a few feet away and after a quick word to Lestrade turned back to look at Sherlock.

 

"Welcome home brother," he said before taking Lestrade's hand and disappearing behind a mausoleum.

 

"He knew?" John asked curiously narrowing his eyes at his friend.

 

"Of course he knew. Molly, Mycroft, and myself set the who..."

 

" _Molly knew_!" John exclaimed jumping back from his friend and glaring. "You mean to tell me that Molly knew you had faked your own death?"

 

"Well, of course she had to know! She was the doctor who pronounced me dead after all. Would have looked a bit odd if she couldn’t confirm it." Sherlock reasoned as he tried to reach out and pull John back into his arms. Without the smaller man there he felt cold and empty again. Stepping forward he reached out and pulled John back into his arms. The smaller man went willingly but his anger seethed through him as he stared up at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, you both have some serious explaining to do. For three years that woman has watched me fall apart over you every single day and never bothered to utter a single bloody fucking word!” John raged as he gripped his friend’s arms tightly. His eyes bright with tears that threatened to fall any moment and his voice an octave or two higher than usual. Sherlock felt like the world was tilting.

 

“I’m so sorry John. I should have found some way, anyway, to tell you.” Leaning forward Sherlock buried his head against John’s neck and breathed in his scent. “Can you forgive me?” He asked pulling his mate closer and wrapping him tightly against his chest. John stuffed his hands inside Sherlock’s coat and gripped the fine material of his white shirt. The touch was like an electric current touching the detective’s skin and he felt a ache settling low in his stomach.

 

“If you ever do anything, _anything at all,_ like that again…”

 

“No, never.” Sherlock was quick to reply.

 

“I mean it. I will hunt you down and slaughter you with my bare hands.” He whispered as he turned his head and bumped his chilled nose against Sherlock’s check. Pulling back he stared down at his friend, the man he had come to care for, the man he _loved_. Caring about John Watson was probably the easiest thing he had ever done and the hardest.

 

“I love you,” he whispered again as he took John’s face between his hands and with only a slight hesitation laid his mouth against the doctors. The kiss stretched from one moment into the other until Sherlock wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed or exactly where they were. The light headed breathless feeling he got from kissing John was the best high he had ever had.

 

“To right,” came the reply when they separated and Sherlock took a small step back from him. John wobbled for a moment but after he regained his balance he smiled. “Why don’t we go back to the flat and you can show me how much you love me?”

  
“You mean…you want to…you know?” The very thought brought Sherlock’s normally overactive brain to a grinding halt. Could John possibly mean…

 

“Yes, I want you to clean up the shit that’s been lying around the flat for three fucking years! My God! You left a mess!” 


End file.
